Learning by the sun is hard, makes the book’s pages glow and whisper “read me” - A feast for Crows by George R. R. Martin was such an annoying disappointment, in a good way (if there is such way). I read it being quite angry at the author. It’s so … unnecessary long, I think. I really didn’t want to know that many details about some characters. I even thought, “well, that’s it, I ain’t gonna read another one”, but it’s like a soap opera. It stays in your head. I keep wondering what’s x. doing, what’s y doing? I know it’s quite futile since George R. R. Martin almost NEVER answers these questions in a happy way. But still, I’m probably going to read the next one.
sometime ago I happily went to the city and borrowed these three bulky books from the library: one, on Romanian magical folk creatures, one an anthology of sci-fi with short stories and one, which I’m reading now, A feast for crows by George R. R. Martin
A reference to the story “The Five orange pips” from the collection The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes by Arthur Conan Doyle. It was quite a delightful read, not just for the interesting story and writing, but also for the overall atmosphere of that time, of having breakfast or coffee on Baker Street, finding out Sherlock did cocaine and snuff (tobacco), and did not like to be introduced with “Dr.” for dislike of being affiliated with any institution.
To excuse myself for not reading Dacii, by Hadrian Daicoviciu, I’ve been devouring two other books: Lying on the couch, by Irvin D. Yalom and The Suicide Shop, by Jean Teule. The first one I enjoyed enormously: it’s fun and very smart, it makes you laugh, feel, think. The intricate lives of psychanalists and the rich people surrounding them apparently make really good stories. The suicide shop I read for different reasons - it was, well, funny, but I’m not sure if funny enough. It didn’t vibrate with me much.
The bastard of Istanbul by Elif Shafak. For a while this writer has caught my attention, and I had this one on my shelves for a while, but I only got around reading it this last week. I was a good book. I liked it from the title, I didn’t like it from the first chapters, and then I fell in love with it gradually. It’s a good story, it has strong characters, strong voices, and I think it tells things that need to be told. The interactions and relationships between Armanoush and Asya, their mothers, their families are beautifully written and true. So I’m thankful.
about a week ago, I finished rushing Mesterul Manole by Mircea Eliade and Tara Motilor, an ethnographic anthology. The first one didn’t impress me too much, it was a collection of articles by the writer, whom I had expected to be more fascinating. The second was fun enough, telling and showing all kinds of traditions from Motilor Land , from childhood to marriage to death.
Spending quite days at home, some sunny, some foggy, learning, drinking tea and coffee. Reading, still, Eliade’s Mesterul Manole Anthology, at ethnological book about Motilor Land, and Platform by Michel Houellebecq.
While it is very much at odds with my concepts of the world, this book, Platform, was quite an enjoyable read. It’s such a shift of perspective in it from the way I am accustomed to understand the world, that, I suppose, it created a fascination. The main character is full of negativity and pessimism, doing much stereotyping of women, races, sexes, religion with ease. It must not be denied that the style of writing is quite addictive, with its rather sincere exaggerations, sexual fantasies and philosophical rambling of the result market economy and capitalism has on love and tourism.
I’ve read The Midnight Palace by Carlos Ruiz Zafon in one night and one afternoon. So, I can certainly say it’s a catchy book with a catchy story, easy to mindlessly enjoy. I did not love it, but it was ok.
During holiday season I read two short, but big books in literary history. The first one, Chronicle of a death foretold by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, I read in italian. It was definitely pleasant to remember Marquez’s style, which I love, although the book itself didn’t impress me so much. I also read, at the end, his Nobel-prize monologue, which was beautiful.
The second, The Great Gatsby, by F. Scott Fitzgerald, I read to see what the fuss is all about, with the moving coming out and the overall famous-ness of the book. I remember trying to read it in Romanian (my mother-tongue) some years ago and getting terribly bored. Well, in English at least, I enjoyed Fitzgerald’s style, his sentences, his words, but the story remained boring to me.
I keep, however, being very excited in regard to all the books I’m gonna read this year.